They're Time Bombs And They're Ticking
by chocolatechipdelirium
Summary: "There's a lot of umming and ah-ing involved in this business, isn't there?"/ Layne learns that trying to make a guy jealous doesn't really ever work the way you want it to. AU.


**Dedicated to Andi, because she dropped by when I was in bed, bemoaning how sick I was, and told me to shut the hell up and stop my bitching, and get my ass to work on this fanfiction****. Even if you've quit FFN, your still rock my aspirin-high socks.**

**(Tiny) Nathan is Layne's brother here, by the way. And a****ll next week, I have two finals a day. Forgive me if I don't update anything until school's out.**

**Disclaimer: don't own. don't own. don't own. ** disssclaaiiiimeeed.****

...

_"She's so pretty but she but doesn't always act that way/ her mood's out swinging on the swing set almost every day/ she said to me that she's so happy it's depressing/ and all i said was "someone get that girl a mood ring-"_

I grab a pen out of the pencil holder on the windowsill and use it to twist my hair upwards while simultaneously flicking off the radio,_—_because I'm a multi-tasking badass_—_then swipe on a thin layer of lip balm before stuffing it into my jacket pocket. I take a quick last glance at the mirror before closing the door behind me and heading down the stairs.

I manage to inadvertently trip over both a remote-controlled car (Nathan's) and step on a handful of cereal in the hallway (probably Dad's, but he'll never admit to it), so by the time I get to the living room my already-not-so-good mood has deteriorated considerably.

"I'm telling you, John Cena is unbeatable. Randy Orton challenging him to a cage match was a terrible idea. It's basically suicidal." Todd's excited voice floats up the staircase, and I groan inwardly as I realize what the discussion is about.

He is rewarded for his ingénue comment with Kemp snorting. "There's no such thing as a bad idea." I hear him clarify, nailing the macho act in front of Claire, "Only poorly executed awesome ones."

I smirk. Stupid perv. He should know better.

Nathan is sprawled out on the couch with his best friend (and my best friend's brother) watching wrestling, and I make a face. Sweaty overly-muscled guys throwing themselves at each other in the midst of all that grunting and thuds? It just seems...wrong. And hardly appropriate for eight-year-old boys. I'm no pacifist myself-God forbid anyone would think that, since I've gotten in more fist fights than my other brother Chris in my fifteen years, thanks to my quick temper and readiness to throw a punch-but all those theatrics, just for 'good television'? Come _on._

Claire is poised on the edge of the couch, obviously as horrified by the onscreen antics as I am. I give her a little wave, and she flashes me a grim smile, then her eyes slide back to the screen.

"See something you like?"

I almost jump out of my skin when Dempsey creeps up behind me. (I know what you're thinking. What kind of moron gets caught out by a semi-disabled guy? Well, obviously you haven't been acquainted with me yet. World, meet Layne Abeley.) I shoot him a death glare that would've sent a soldier scramming, but it's futile because of course, he's long been immune to my assets.

I growl something about sodomizing him with a toothbrush but he just flashes me a blatant smile, taking a popcorn kernel from the bowl he's holding and placing it in between his teeth, then proceeding to chew with excessive loudness.

Whoever said love makes the world go round should be shot and forced to live out their days watching cute puppies being herded over cliffs. Because in this instant I want nothing more than to knock my best friend Dempsey's teeth in.

I take a deep breath and try to count the number of sheep on Mars (because counting to ten was never enough, as I'd discovered long ago).

"Kay, I'm gonna to get going, guys. Have fun...with..._this_." I grimace again as I gesture at the screen, where Wrestler Number One, wearing what looks like a tight-fitting poncho someone had thrown fifteen buckets of paint over, puked on and then shoved into the washing machine, had Wrestler Number Two, his buttocks adorned with Lycra, in a headlock. Eek.

Lycra Man proceeds to elbow the other man in the gut, and he responds by howling before throwing an aimless punch and almost knocking the other's teeth out. The referee waves his arms frantically, and someone bellows for a time-out. But before I can discover the result of the match, my cell beeps with a new message. Talk about saved by the bell.

-:-

"Regular or tall?"

I drag my eyes away from the patterns scratched into the paneled wood and blink, momentarily confused. "Hmm?"

The college-aged guy behind the counter sighs and repeats his question, reaching up to fix his droll bright-green hat.

"Um, regular."

He gives me a quick nod and dissapears to relay my order to whoever was in charge of making everyone's day by providing them with caffeine. I pay for my coffee and hand him the correct amount of change, (all the while ignoring the dubious looks he was giving me) then turn around and collide with Derrick.

"Christ," he says, almost tipping the contents of his plastic-lidded cup embolded with the Starbucks logo onto my shoes. The sweet-smelling hot brown liquid swooshes around in the cup threateningly, but he straightens it just in time and my flats are safe, for now.

I look up at his face to see that his features are rearranged into a mask of shock, an expression so unusual for him that it looks almost comical. (Almost. He's still stupidly handsome, of course, and I doubt anything will ever change that. Cue me emitting an annoyed sound.)

He doesn't seem to hear it and his eyes flicker instead to my attire, and he cocks a dark eyebrow.

"Not that it's any of your business," I say, emphasizing the fact that it really _isn't_, and reaching down to brush my skirt self-consciously (Good lord, yes, I'm wearing a skirt. It's not long before this is followed by a push-up bra, and then I will be propelled full-thrust towards a marvellous and mellifluous career in prostitution) "but I'm meeting up with Dune."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but I swear his eyes harden a little, even if it is by an infinitesimal amount.

Huh. Score one for me.

"You might not want to go to our place," I tell him, "because they're having another WWE marathon."

Derrick shrugs. He's not a huge fan of wrestling, either, but he doesn't voice his objections as often-or as verbally, either-as I do. Of course he doesn't, I acknowledge bitterly. Because complaining would actually require words to leave his lips, and God forbid he ever utter more than a few words.

I bite back whatever vehement retort is burning my tongue and tell him I'm late-and it was nice seeing him-and leave, but not before turning around to look at him one last time as I walk past the glass shop windows.

He's not even looking in my direction; his obsidian eyes are fixed on his coffee cup.

Bastard.

...

Here's the thing: I've had a crush on Derrick Harrington for something like three years, since I first saw him, another accessory on Massie Block's arm, my first day at BOCD. She broke up with him a year later, after his mom passed away with cancer, because she put up with his depression for about a day before she deemed him a "LBR". Which was kind of a bitchy move, but this is Massie Block, spawn of Satan himself, we're talking about. He ditched his soccer buddies a short time later, and now hangs out with me, Claire, Kristen, and the guys, and he's been the quiet, brooding Greek God type ever since.

It was Kristen's idea in the first place, this go-out-with-another-guy-to-make-him-jealous-and-realize-how-perfect-you-are-for-one-another thing. And she's supposed to be the brainy one: have a think about _that_.

When I get to the theatre, I know that Dune is already there, because his green convertible is parked outside in the handicapped parking spot. Jerk.

I spot him as soon as I step into the air-conditioned edifice, because he's chatting up the twenty-something year-old who's manning the popcorn stand. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and plaster a smile onto my face, calling out his name. He peels his eyes away from the blonde's fishleg tights and his jaw just about falls slack.

"Hey,' I say. He doesn't reply, at which point I start to get a little worried that he's had an aneurysm or something. His face breaks into a huge smile, but I find it even more irksome and lean away from him slightly. Has he always been this annoying, or am I just irritable from my encounter with Derrick?

He seems to recover, though, and mumbles a 'hi' in return. I wait by the cinema door while he buys us some popcorn and two Diet Cokes, the blonde's features twisting in annoyance as she served us because he's completely forgotten about her, (I admit I feel a little sorry for her now, even if she doesn't seem like the nicest of people if she's hitting on someone like Dune, anyways) and then he grabs my hand as we enter the theater.

Personally, I was dying to go watch Pirates Of the Carribbean, but Dune won't hear of it. He picked some crap movie that was basically a mash-up of

Like I said, it was a crap movie.

The plot moved along at a sluggish pace, and sometime in the middle, when the hero is rescuing the damsel in distress from some creaking pile of evil scrap metal, I finger the keypad on my phone, contemplating texting Kristen to see if she's willing to stage an intervention.

And that's when he assaults me.

I'm not going to go into too much detail, but as soon as I feel the wet, slobbery thing on my neck, I panic.

I shove at his chest, my nails digging into his forearms, (I'm proud to say they left little half-moon curves indented into his skin) struggling against his weight.

"Oof," he yelps, springing back, and almost whacking a woman with his arm, earning him an iridescent glare.

He rubs at his arm, a scowl permanently knitted in his brows. His cheeks flushed with anger. "What the hell was that for, you—"

And then he lunges at me. What do I do? Well, I do what any sane fifteen-year-old on a date with an asshole would do.

I punch him.

**...**

**So, what do you think? Worth continuing? **

**The forum is up and running, by the way! Be sure to check it out: link on my profile. Oh, and congrats to Livvy (this-isignorance) for being first mod. Y'all should come to her inauguration party later. We have lemon cake.**


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